


Delicate

by rumflavouredkisses



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumflavouredkisses/pseuds/rumflavouredkisses
Summary: A Frankie/Boyd [non] romance in 30 parts.This is a posting of a very old fic that I finished writing but not posting. Just around because apparently people still care. Originally for a #30kisses challenge.Set around series 4.





	1. #1 Look Over Here

**#1 LOOK OVER HERE**

“Frankie, do you think you could….”

Boyd pauses a moment in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgement but Frankie doesn't even look up. 'Frankie….?' He tries again but gets the same lack of response. He feels a flash of anger her defiance and insolence crawls under his skin.

“FRANKIE!”

“Boyd.” Her tone is heavy – exasperated – and she still doesn't look up. He is reminded of a mother whose child is interrupting something important to ask for the tenth time why the sky is blue. Her attitude only fuels his irritation and he digs his nails into his palms as he struggles to quell his anger. “I said…”

“I heard what you said. Well, what you started to say: you finished mid-sentence. Could I….what?” Finally she looks up, fixing her eyes on him for almost a whole second before turning back to the desk.

He forces another deep breath.

“I got this from Jackson’s flat. I think it’s his, but if you could check it, just to be on the safe side?”

“Over there.” She gestures vaguely across the room, continuing to squint into the telescope before her. He can't help but wonder what’s so fascinating under the eye piece that she can’t break from looking at it, even to check where she’s waving.

Seeing an opportunity he follows her instruction exactly, dropping the bag at the spot she'd indicated. The evidence bag hits the floor with a loud clang, and he feels a flush of satisfaction as her head shoots up.

“Boyd, what the hell?”

He wonders if the possible damage to the evidence is worth it, just to see the flash of anger in her eyes when they meet his. She mutters something about him being a prick, but doesn’t move to retrieve the bag.

“Had you torn yourself away from the telescope for even a _moment_, Frankie, you would have known that you were gesturing at mid air.”

He crosses his arms as he speaks: self-righteous and proud of it. Unsurprisingly this fails to impress her and she scowls back at him. “Well, I was busy.”

“Right, if you say so.”

He turns on his heel and heads for the door, leaving the evidence bag lying on the floor, its contents shimmering silver under the strip lights.

“Boyd, the bag!”

He smirks as he turns round slowly - drawing it out, enjoying acting the child role she'd apparently assigned him. “The bag, Frankie?”

He looks down at it on the floor and takes a step back. Incredulous, she swears at him. 'Fuck, what are you, ten? For Christ's sake!"

She pounces from her seat and is in front of him in a second; mumbling angrily under her breath as she bends to fetch the bag. 'You're such a child, I can't believe…' When she rises back upright, she meets his gaze with a furious expression and anger seeping from her pores.

The whole kiss is over in a second.

One minute he's smirking; chest thrust out - immaturely pompous - and then he's leaning forwards. His lips are on hers – lightly, barely – and then he's smirking again.

“Don’t ignore me.”


	2. #2 News; A Letter

**#2 NEWS; LETTER**

“Who’s that?”

He didn't hear Frankie come in but when she speaks, she whispers right into his ear, bent over his shoulder - so close her lips brush his earlobe. He turns his head towards her and the movement tickles her hair against his cheek.

“Ever heard of Daniel Wilson?”

“How could I not? Even if it hadn’t been the biggest man hunt of the last fifty years, he’s all over the news now.”

“Because he's being released.”

Boyd gestures to a TV flickering in the corner and mutes it. It's showing the BBC news – a close-up of a man in an ugly tie, leaving court.

“Ridiculous.”

She moves round to his feet, and perches beside them on his desk. He rapidly flicks his focus from the television to her and back. “Indeed it is.”

“Why?”

This time his focus stays on her as his eyebrows knit in confusion. “He was a…”

“Sadistic killer I know, I didn't mean…I know why his _release_ is ridiculous; I just wondered why you’re watching a news story about it. At work.”

“It was a big case, not far from here. I'm just showing professional interest.”

She raises her eyebrows and another question waits on her lips but he cuts her off before she can speak “It was what you could call my ‘big break’.”

“You were on the case?”

“Only as a lowly DS: a tiny cog in the big machine. But it was me who found the witness who finally secured the conviction.”

There's no arrogance in his voice – he's not bragging about a past glory, just telling a story. She nods, and her hand drifts to his ankles on the desk, fingers tracing small circles against his socks. “Sometimes I wonder if I’d be here now if it wasn’t for that case. It was so high profile…such an important witness…it was only luck really, but no one could deny how important it was.”

He stares at the television – the coherence of his speech fading as he looses himself in his memories. The silence rests heavy with the expectation of his next sentence, but it doesn’t come. On the screen the picture changes; they zoom into a close up of a man in a suit. Old but smart with his grey hair neatly parted and his tie in a fat Windsor knot. The banner at the bottom of the screen proclaims him to be John Harper, a retired Detective Chief Inspector.

“Was that your DCI?”

“Only on that case, yes: half the Met was drafted onto it by the end. Needed all the man power they could get. He hated me - thought I was much too cocky.”

She bites back a smart comment but can't help smirking. He catches the quirk of her lips and raises his eyebrows warningly. “He absolutely hated that it was me who made the breakthrough. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the key witness wasn’t found by him, they weren't even found by one of his team. If there hadn’t been so much riding on the conviction I’m sure he would have misplaced the statement or found the evidence inadmissible or something.”

“What? I’m sorry, I know that DCI’s can be gits” it’s not a direct jibe at him but they both acknowledge it could be with slight smiles and raised eyebrows “but surely, no one would risk _any_ kind of conviction.”

“That's surprisingly innocent and optimistic of you, Frankie.”

“Naïve, you mean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to…”

“Insult me, Boyd?”

“No, lie to you. It's not naïve, having faith in the system. Shouldn’t everyone do that?"

Swinging his feet off the desk, he leans forwards to grab her hands, covering them as he pulls her closer. “I wish…I wish I could still feel that way.”

She responds to his sincerity by leaning towards him, almost magnetically. Close, so close, too close, and her lips are on his without a second thought. 

The contact is fleeting; Boyd jumps back and casts her a sorrowful look “Frankie, I…I don’t think this is a good idea.”

She straightens up and she can feel her cheeks flaming. Inwardly she curses herself - not for allowing herself to kiss him but for being ashamed by it. His hand clasps hers – tight - and she tries to pull them back but he won’t let go. “Listen, I…”

“I get it Boyd, alright. It's not…we can't and I didn't mean…God, I guess I need to learn your technique: get away quicker.”

Shocked, he releases her hand and before he can speak she’s gone.


	3. #Jolt

**#3 JOLT**

In a flicker and a flash the sky lights up; a loud crack of thunder quickly follows.

'Jesus!' Boyd hisses, jumping.

'Oh you big baby!' Frankie smirks at him before ducking into the tent and calling back, 'it's only a little storm.'

Glaring at her back, he follows her in. 'Well I wasn't expecting it.'

'Yeah, okay,' she says, with more than a hint of scepticism 'If you say so.'

'I do.' She gives no reply beyond a smirk, which he pointedly ignores. '

Is this going to take long?' He asks, none-too-subtly checking his watch in the beam of his torch.

'Why, have you got plans?' She shines her own torch into the gaping grave before her; quickly scanning for flashes of reflected light.

'Yes, actually, I have dinner plans. Ha, didn't see that one coming did you?' There's more than a hint of smugness in his voice as he comes up behind her to look over her shoulder into the open grave.

'A date? You?' She doesn't bother to hide her surprise – or disbelief - at the suggestion and after a long pause he modifies his claim. 'Well, not _exactly_ a date'

'Then what_ exactly_ is it?'

He glances away from her as he mumbles under his breath. 'District commissioner wants to discuss the progress of the case.'

She gives a snort of laughter before clambering into the grave. 'Now _that_ sounds more likely!'

After a few minutes in the hole she gives a triumphant shout 'Well, it looks like your date needn't worry, because - can you shine your torch just there a minute – I've found it!'

She bounces back up, waving a silver necklace. 'It must have slipped out of the coffin when we moved it; I just hope dirt hasn't got inside the…' she pauses as she fiddles with the small locket 'the actual charm. That should wait for the lab though.' She slips the chain into a small evidence bag and shakes it at Boyd; frowning at the face he pulls in reaction to the now dirt smeared plastic. 'And again with being a baby,' she chides as he finally takes the bag and slips it into his pocket.

'That's more like it.' She hoists herself up onto the side of the grave and holds a hand out towards Boyd. 'Right, now help me up?' She asks, waving a hand towards him. For a moment he just stares down at her, a strange look on his face, and she slaps his calf. 'Oi, BOYD!'

Glaring at her he takes her hand and pulls; too hard so that instead of stopping upright she keeps going and stumbles into him. With her body pressing flush against his, she casts him a self-satisfied smirk. 'Ooh, did I hit a nerve with the baby comments?'

'I just don't feel you should speak to your boss like that, Dr Wharton.'

'Oh come one. Which part of that sentence should I attack first – the boss part, or the Dr Wharton part?' She asks smartly, sticking out her tongue in defiance.

Shaking his head mock-despairingly at her action he teases 'and we're labelling _me_ a baby?'

'We? So you do agree with me then?' She laughs softly, her chest vibrating against the heavy knit of his coat. The movement makes her acutely aware of herself – the proximity of their bodies and the weight of his hand still wrapped round hers – and she jumps away from him, blushing.

There's a flash of confusion – hurt – across his face as she quickly straightens up and moves away, but he doesn't say anything. She busies herself at the graveside – desperate for something else to focus on – beginning to unpeel the top half of her blue protective suit. When she spins back round to face Boyd he's standing where she left him, looking at her with distant eyes, as if he isn't quite seeing her.

'Boyd? I'm done here, so if you want to rush off to your dinner…' Her voice appears to startle him back to himself; his eyes fix on her as he groans.

'I can assure you, there is nothing I want less than to rush off to that dinner. Think of something – anything - for me to do to get out of it, and I will be forever in your debt!'

She laughs, and he cracks a smile, reaching over to the door of the tent to open it

'Anyway, who wants to go out into that?'

Peering over his shoulder into the night air, she hums in agreement. The darkness is thick with torrential rain, and the air vibrates with the sound of it hitting the floor. Still she turns to him with a fake-disgusted expression.

'Boyd, I refuse to spend the whole night in a graveyard'

'Not even with me?' He feigns hurt and turns back to frown at her.

'_Especially _not with you!' She laughs, leaning further into him, trying to see the outline of the car through the downpour.

'Well, quite frankly, I'm hurt. So hurt in fact that now I am not going to offer you my coat to shelter under anymore.'

Before she can reply that she wouldn't take it anyway, he ducks out into the rain and strides away across the wet cemetery. 'Oh really mature!' she shouts at his shadow as it melts into the rain.

There's a moment of dark silence, before two beams of light blind her. After a moment, he flashes the headlights again mockingly, and she can imagine the smug look on his face. She glares into the light angrily, mouthing a curse she knows he can't see.

'Right' She removes her blue suit, stuffing it her tool box and takes a deep breath. 'Here goes nothing.' She grimaces and runs out into the rain. Almost instantly her hair clamps to her head, and her clothes transform into wet sacks against her skin.

As she approaches the car her feet slip on the rain slick gravel and she slams against the passenger door. Swearing, she yanks it open, throws herself inside and slams it shut all in one rapid movement. Scowling, she turns to Boyd who positively smirks back – seeming to have forgotten his own dishevelled appearance. 'And to think, you could have avoided that with one nice word!'

Running a hand through her sopping hair she glares at him, but resists from replying.

'Do you have a towel?'

'Nope.' He shook his head.

'A blanket?' Another shake.

'A shirt or a jacket or ANYTHING?' She demands, desperation seeping into her voice. He begins to shake again, but stops suddenly.

'Hang on, now, I have a change of clothes: it might even include a towel!'

Frankie almost smiles at this confession, but she senses a catch and waits. 'But…?'

'Why does there have to be a 'but'?'

'Because you've got that smug smile on your face that says you're about to make me unhappy.'

'I _never_ smirk! And even if I did, the thought of causing you displeasure would never…'

'Boyd, what's the catch.' She cut in irritably, as drop of water fell from her hair to her eyelid.

'The holdall is in the back seat.' He waves vaguely backwards 'Somewhere.'

'You are so bloody useless.' She mutters, twisting in her seat to search for the bag. She spots it almost immediately – half hidden beneath the driver's seat - and leans further round, fumbling awkwardly; unable to reach it

Swearing, she turns fully in her seat and – using Boyd's seat for leverage - she half climbs into the back and manages to grasp the handle. 'A-ha!' She calls triumphantly, giving it one hard tug. But the bag catches on something and – as she is unprepared for the resistance – unbalances her so that she falls – quite spectacularly – backwards.

Boyd catches her back before she slams into the dashboard, but is too slow to stop her landing painfully on the handbrake.

'Son of a…' She scowls, gingerly raising herself and rubbing her arse.

'Language Frankie!' Boyd chastises with a smirk. But it disappears at her genuinely injured expression, and carefully he pulls her towards him, shifting her off the handbrake and offering more support to her back.

She wants to be a feminist, to tell him she doesn't need his strong _man_ act, but the heat of his hand through her damp clothes tingles on her skin and instead she presses back into his touch.

A single drop of water forms on the very tip of his hair – swept heavily across his forehead – and drips down across his face, over his cheek and into the uneven stubble of his beard. Instinctively she reaches out and swipes it away and at her touch his breath catches. She gives him a half smile, studying him. The cold has flushed his skin pink, and the rain given it a damp sheen. His eyelids flutter shut, loosening another glittering bead of water from his eyelashes. Again she reaches to brush it away with the pad of her thumb, and involuntarily leans closer' too close; close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips.

The brush of her lips against his is so light it's barely a kiss – barely a touch. She pulls only millimetres away, savouring the bittersweet silence that hangs before the recriminations.

He says her name as if it's a prayer; a curse; just a sharp breath and barely a sound. 'Frankie…' It hangs between them as she shifts back into her seat, the movement stirring his eyelids to fly open. There's pain in his eyes and passion, but all she can see is the regret and sympathy that is painted plainly across his face: the look of someone who thinks he's about to break her heart.

Shame floods her and she won't allow him that privilege. She retrieves the bag which had been loosened by the jolt of her fall, and pulls out the towel. Viciously she rubs it against her hair, ignoring the look, she doesn't even have to see to know, that Boyd is giving her.

'Frankie you know…'

'This can't ever happen. Yeah, I got the memo.'

'It's not that I don't…' it's the pity in his voice that pushes her over the edge.

'Fuck Boyd! I get it, all right? One mistake, okay? Forgive me for being human.'

'But I don't…'

'Just take me back to the office. Please.'


	4. #4 Our Distance And That Person

**#4 OUR DISTANCE AND THAT PERSON**

Grace is trained in studying people so she can't help but notice. They are hardly subtle: both wear their emotions firmly on their sleeves. From one day to the next it’s a full pendulum swing from unnecessary touches and shared humour to hard quick snatches and sharp words: friends to enemies in one night. It would be impossible not to notice.

She assumes it's Boyd's fault: it so often is. His quick temper and his insensitivity make him a walking time bomb. But she doesn't absolve Frankie of blame: she ignites his fuse so often. An insolent reply or sharp jibe is never far from her lips and she censors herself for no one.

Grace worries about the rest of the team. Mel and Spence don't see it at first but such a toxic relationship can never remain unnoticed. She senses this is not something light - it won't blow over by itself - but it's personal and she shouldn't pry into it.

But when she walks into the department to find Mel in hysterics at Frankie and Spence's tableau of their latest experience with a witness, the fuel of their argument becomes clearer. As Frankie thrusts her hand at Spence and he raises it to his lips in exaggerated propriety, the room is split by a loud bang. All gazes whip round to Boyd: to the folders now scattered at his feet.

The flash of anger – jealousy – is so brief in his eyes that the rest of the team miss it. But Grace is trained to study people – she notices.


	5. #5 Ah, You Know

**#5 AH, YOU KNOW**

'Hi Frankie.'

Grace hovers in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged. It takes minute, but eventually Frankie looks up, inviting her in with a warm smile.

'Hi Grace, what can I do for you? If Boyd wants to know about the Preston's DNA…'

'No,' she laughs 'I'm not here pressing for results. He can do his own dirty work. Actually I just wanted to talk to you.' She approaches, pausing by the computer screen so that Frankie is forced to look at her. 'But I did want to talk about Boyd.'

And in that moment the barrier comes down, Grace can see it. Frankie's previously warm and comfortable body language, her inviting expression, immediately replaced by closed and cautious, her arms crossed and her face blank. 'What about him?' She trains her expression on the computer screen, avoiding Grace's knowing look.

'Well by the way you just shut down, I'm pretty sure you already know.'

'Humour me.' Her eyes remain on the screen, but they are too blank to be actually seeing it.

'What happened between you and Boyd?'

She looks up with a flash of shock in her eyes which quickly dissolves to anger. 'I can't believe he talked to you about it; he won't even talk to me and I'm the one he kissed.'

'The one he what? When? Where?'

Frankie's face flushes pink at the surprised tone of Grace’s voice, and she turns away from Grace's wide eyes as she replies. 'In the lab – in here – a few weeks ago; we were arguing about something – I don't even remember what – and he kissed me, just to get the last word.'

'A few weeks ago? You haven't been upset with each other that long…'

The pink deepens to scarlet but she finally meets Grace's gaze as she continues in a slow, heavy voice. 'No, we've just been weird since I kissed him.'

'Frankie!'

'I know, I know it was stupid; once is a mistake, and twice is stupidity. But it doesn't matter anymore; we know how each other feel now, so no more excuses for misunderstandings.'

Though she feels this is far from the case, Grace is prevented from saying so by a swish of doors and rapid footsteps.

“Frankie, I think…”

Angry at Boyd for interrupting, Grace turns to glare at him in unison with Frankie, who is just angry to see him.

“WHAT?”


	6. #6 The Space Between Dream and Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy that people are still here to see the end of this story. I will try to upload things reguarly, but obviously real life has a horrible habit of getting in the way. It will come eventually though, I promise!

Boyd dreams of a world without crime.

A world where people survive in relative harmony: without selfishness or desperation. Where people can share peacefully: without inflicting themselves on everyone else. It's not that he's a hippy, he's just jaded – he needs that dream world to escape from the horrors of the world he lives in.

He dreams of a world where he’s not a policeman.

Where he’s a bus driver, or a librarian, anything where he isn’t faced everyday with the ugliest side of humanity; where he can pretend that it doesn’t exist - the pain or the hate – and peace of mind is his.

And he dreams of a world where he’s not Frankie’s boss.

Where they met in a bar, he bought her a drink, and they started something easy, something _pure_: without the poison of inter-office politics to interfere. Where he can kiss her again and again and there’s no need to worry about complications or consequences.

But there _is_ crime in the world, and it _is_ his job to face it everyday - he couldn't live if he didn't do his bit to try and change the world. If he’d met Frankie in a bar he would never have bought her a drink, because his attraction to her is deeper than that - he loves her for passion and humour.

And the fact that he has given this so much thought, means there’s already complications and consequences.


	7. #7 Superstar

**#7 Superstar**

'All I'm saying is, it might not be that simple an explanation.'

'And all I'm saying, Boyd, is that it is.'

'Why?'

'Why not? There were no signs of a struggle, and not enough water splashed over the sides for the TV to have fallen further than a few inches. He just did something incredibly stupid, and he paid for it.'

'But that’s my problem. He wasn’t stupid.'

'He was in a boyband.'

'Could you be stereotyping him anymore, Frankie? Yes he was in a boy band. He also had a first from a highly reputable university'

'In MUSIC; that does not a genius make.'

'_Frankie! _I never had you pegged as such a snob.'

'I'm not a snob, Boyd, I just think you are crediting him with a lot more intelligence than he deserves. He kept a television on a - frankly unsteady - stool beside his bath. He wasn't Nobel prize winning material.'

'But he would have needed good grades to get on the course in the first place – He must have had at least enough common sense to know not to put the television that close. And you're forgetting that everyone we spoke too: friends, family, colleagues, they all said they couldn't believe he'd do something so…'

'Stupid?'

'Stupid. And he was a political activist as well. He used his status…'

'…As an overpaid, under-talented teen idol?'

'…as a CELEBRITY to draw attention to the suffering of farmers post foot and mouth.'

'He was a poor farmer's son come good. Do the words 'PR stunt' mean anything to you? He could just have easily been a figurehead, puppeted by his dad who had the brains.'

'Yes he could, but surely it's something to consider okay?'

'Not really. So since when did you become such a big fan of boybands anyway?'

'I'm not…Frankie, this isn't about who he was…'

'…I know…'

'It's about what he may have been.'

'And that is…?'

'Murdered.'

'This is like banging my head against a brick wall.'

'Why are you so against the idea of this being murder?'

'Because that's my job: to establish the facts based on the evidence. You're just plucking at straws because…'

'So you think I'm being biased: don't you think you're being more than a little prejudiced yourself?'

'Maybe I am, but with good reason.'

'There's never a good reason for being narrow-minded Frankie.'

'No you're right, I'm sorry.'

'No, you're not.'

'What?'

'You're not sorry!'

'Okay, so I'm not because I think I'm right. But let's just pretend shall we? For the sake of my sanity; I don't think I can handle anymore of this conversation.'

'Frankie, are you undermining me?'

'WHAT?'

'I'm your direct superior and if you're undermining my authority…'

'…undermining your what? God, Boyd!'

'…then that's a problem.'

'Are you calling me unprofessional? Because if you are, then _that_ is a problem'

'Oh…for…God's, we need to sort this out!'

'Sort what out…how?'

'I'm sorry if I've offended you.'

'Excuse me? Have I fallen into some parallel universe where you actually admit when you're wrong?'

'Oh, so funny. Now it's your turn.'

'My turn to what? Apologise for following the evidence, which, incidentally, iswhat I'm paid for?'

'That's not…Frankie that isn't what I was apologising for…'

'Then what…? Oh right.'

'So…?'

'You think I should apologise for _that_? You kissed me first Boyd, remember?'

'That was a mistake.'

'Understatement.'

'Will you please take this seriously? We can't carry on the way we have been, it's beginning to affect our work!'

'So you want me to make an apology I don't really feel, just so _you_ can move past this? Then fine; I am sorry Boyd for ever even looking at you in…'

'Okay that's enough. Just…let's just get back to this corpse in the bath tub.'

'What we're sorted now?'

'Yes, yes whatever. I think we should just leave it.'

'So we agree this was an accidental death?'

'FRANKIE!'


	8. Our World

  


Eventually they sorted it out.

It should have been fireworks and storms; fights and arguments drawn out over days. Personal grievances they couldn’t really overcome, until it all melted; something gave and they fell together like pieces in a jigsaw.

But it wasn't. It was a begrudging truce followed by pretending it never happened, shamed into silence.

She’s disappointed, though she tries to ignore it. She expected passion and fire, didn't just expect it - she wanted it. She wanted the chances it afforded, wanted to explore the doors it opened. And she can’t stand the thought this is all she gets.

* * *

He arrives late one Tuesday night, a bottle of wine in his hand and regret in his eyes, and she can’t turn him away. He knows it; she knows it, and their dance of avoidance on the doorstep is nothing more than perfunctory.

“Boyd, I…”

She’s not sure what she’s going to say, or even what she can say. She takes the bottle from him and leaves him by the door, heading for the kitchen as she fights to find some part of her brain that can process the sight of Boyd at her door.

She comes back to find him perched on the edge couch, and she bites back a comment on his inability to relax anywhere but his office. She doesn't know this for sure - she's never SEEN him comfortable anywhere else, but she's never seen him at home - and with their boundaries breached like this, it's too personal.

He waits and watches as she places the glasses on the table and - sitting on the armchair opposite him - pulls the wine towards her. “Here, let…” He begins, reaching to take the bottle but the cork is popped before he finishes his sentence. She fills the glasses almost to overflowing, and quickly gulps one, two mouthfuls down and studies him over the rim. He raises his glass but doesn’t drink, keeps his eyes fixed ahead, and bounces his foot against the floor.

“That’s rude.” She says without really thinking, and he throws her a confused look. “That.” She gestures to his leg which he immediately stills. “It’s a sign of discomfort in your surroundings.”

He looks mildly amused. “Where did you learn that?”

“It's simple body language, everyone knows it.”

He smirks disbelievingly and raises an eyebrow so she concedes. “Okay, I read it an old Cosmopolitan magazine in a Doctors' waiting room once.”

His leg begins bouncing again.

“Frankie …”

She stares at his leg; watching the curve of his knee as it rises and falls, ignoring his eyes burning her skin. He doesn’t speak either, and her name hangs in the silence as a question neither wants to answer. They sit for minutes in this mute tableau and in the quiet her temper flares: at his weakness for coming and their shared weakness for not talking.

“Can you go please?” Her voice is stung with anger and she finally meets his eyes. Hurt flickers across his face for a moment but he rises to his feet without voicing it.

His immediate submission only fans her annoyance. "Is that it? You come to my house, uninvited, for the first time since we’ve known each other. You bring wine and stand on my doorstep looking sheepish and nervous. All that and you're going to just leave, after half a glass of Merlot and some stupid small talk about body language?”

“I don’t want to upset you.”

“So why did you do it?”

“I came here because I thought we needed to talk.”

“That’s not what I meant. You know that's not what I meant.” Her voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper and she looks at him under lowered lashes, vulnerability painted across her face. He reaches an arm out to soothe her and speaks in a voice that is equally subdued “I…don’t know. I just thought…well I didn’t think. God, I’m too old for this…”

And in a split second her vulnerability dissolves and she controls herself, straightening up to meet his gaze. “Yeah you’re right. We’re acting like kids, and I hate it. I hate you for making me act this way and I hate myself for doing it. And it stops now Boyd. Right here, right now. This isn’t us; this isn’t the way we are. Our world is at work, you don’t belong here, and I’m not playing by your rules anymore. I can’t.”

He hesitates, and she can see a thought teetering on his lips, but confusion dances in his eyes and he says nothing. He just nods and brushes his lips across her cheek, heads for the door and out, without even stopping to put his coat on.  
  
She calls his name without realising she's going to do it. She flinches as it tumbles out, so loud it couldn't be missed. The door is already open, and for barely a blink she thinks he pauses, hestitates, and she braces for impact.

Boyd doesn’t turn back.


	9. Dash

“And then he said…oh, hi Frankie.”

Mel pulls away from her close conversation with Spence and flashes a warm smile at the latecomer. Spence turns too, though his grin is fondly mocking as he speaks. 

“You look nice tonight.”

She flushes, but doesn't pass comment on this backhanded compliment. A finger taps her shoulder and she spins round to find Grace who is also smiling. She returns this smile, thinly but as warm as she can muster, trying not to check the immediate vicinity for Boyd's presence. “Bathroom” Grace supplies, adding with a hint of amusement “Spence is right you know.”

She hadn’t known that a slick of lip gloss and a clean shirt made such a difference to her appearance, but she doesn’t get a chance to mention it because he appears; though he doesn't see her as he heads straight for the bar. He orders a scotch before turning to the group and finally noticing her. He blinks – once, twice - and greets her simply. “Frankie.”

“Boyd.” She leans in quickly and her lips are a warm whisper against his cheek. “Happy Birthday.”

“I…Thank you.” He swallows whatever he was about to say and Frankie thinks maybe she can escape the night alive. “Can I get you a drink?”

She casts a glance at Mel’s pint, Grace’s gin and tonic. “A glass of Shiraz please.' 

* * *

They spend the night dancing around each other. 

She repays Boyd's drink twice over - once for politeness and another for his birthday - and they share idle discussion of old cases with Grace, Mel or Spence but never alone. The drinks are ready as water, and soon the whole group is balancing on the knife edge of drunkenness.

What remains of her sobriety tells her to leave; they’ve moved to a table now and they're all in for the long haul. She sits between Mel and Grace on a cushioned bench, while the men sit opposite and do the bar runs. Mel keeps prodding her and Spence gently nudging her foot under the table, and she can't understand why. Maybe they're confusing her for each other.

* * *

Boyd heads to the bar just as Grace reappears from the bathroom, and instead of returning to the bench Grace steals his stool. For some reason this makes Mel giggle, and Frankie feels like she’s missing out on some big joke.

It takes two trips for Boyd to retrieve all the drinks, and only when he stops the second time does he notice his missing seat. He drops onto the bench beside her without comment, and the brush of his side against hers makes her flinch.

But he doesn’t notice, just snakes a drink across the table towards her. Realising she is playing with fire she tries to sip it slowly, yet somehow this glass lasts half as long as the last and she feels her equilibrium slipping.

* * *

Grace is watching them both, she can feel it. She grabs Boyd's arm and pulls him close to whisper into his ear about their observer. He doesn’t look at Grace before whispering back, his voice a nonsensical rush of heat against her ear. She can't bring herself to pull away from their new proximity and savours the warm press of his thigh against hers beneath the table.

She lost track of time a while ago, failed to notice the pub slowly filling up. But now it's reached almost full capacity and the air buzzes with body heat and the hazy smell of smoke and sweat. Absently she watches as Boyd reaches to his neck, subconsciously loosening another button of his shirt.

He turns towards her, catches her staring. She feels a blush warming her already hot skin, and he smirks at her, reaching out his hand to rub against hers. Something about this movement upsets her - his arrogant nonchalance or the gesture's deliberate intimacy – and fuelled by the alcohol in her bloodstream anger swells inside her. The events of the last few weeks - his stupid arrogance, his inability to talk to her - all crawl under her skin, needling and irritating. She wants to be anywhere but sat next to him with their bodies pressing together; him thinking they're just fine; assuming he can act like that.

She's up out of her seat without really being aware of her actions. Slinging her coat across her shoulders she makes hurried goodbyes to the others without even giving Boyd another look and dashes for the door, the safety of escape.

The cold night air slaps her as she emerges, stinging her cheeks and bringing tears to her eyes. She spots the comforting yellow glow of a taxi light approaching, and waves desperately to hail it.

A heavy hand appears on her shoulder and she considers ignoring him, but the taxi is too far away to offer a quick exit. She keeps her voice indifferent and keeps waving to the taxi as she asks him. "What?"

"What's wrong?" The confusion in his voice drags her attention to him, and she spins round, for a minute forgetting exactly what was wrong. The cold air is sobering and dampens her anger; she realises the stupidity of her dramatic exit. But despite her embarrassment nothing will get her back in that pub – the hot sticky air, sweet with alcohol, would push her over the edge again eventually.

“I just remembered something I have to do.” Weariness seeps through her bones, and she doesn't have the energy to think of a proper lie. His eyes tell her he doesn't believe her but he loosens his grip a little anyway. 

“Really? Well that’s a shame…I was almost enjoying myself.”

She knows it's his birthday and a hint of guilt mingles with her despondent resignation, but she refuses to buckle. "Boyd I'm sorry, I just really need to get home. I'll see you tomorrow yeah?" Quickly she brushes her lips against his cheek, "Happy birthday." 

And as the cab pulls up before her, she wriggles from his grasp and climbs in.


	10. Ten

Each bullet lay on the desk, neatly in rows, labelled one to ten. Even as they stared her in the face she could scarcely believe it. How could you hate someone enough to fill them with not one, not two, not even five but TEN bullets? From a handgun! The intensity of hatred that took was beyond her comprehension. When was one violent kiss of death - a bullet to the head - not enough? Was it a point being made to the world or was it a viscous outpouring of pent up aggression?  
  
The swish of the lab doors opening cut through her thoughts, a heavy hand slammed on the desk and one by one the bullets rattled their way off the table. With fire in her eyes she looked up at Boyd, and thought maybe she understood how the feeling started.


	11. Gardenia

“Awww, Spence, I didn’t know you cared.” 

At the sound of Mel’s laughing tone, Frankie lifts her gaze from the papers Boyd was showing her, to see Spence with an armful of flowers. Grace bustles from her office, heading straight for the bouquet, picking and preening at the blossoms. “These are beautiful Spence, where did you get them? Who are they for?”

“They’re for Frankie, but I don’t know who from. I just got a call from reception that they’d been left.”

A blush of embarrassment kisses her cheeks as her brow furrows in confusion.

She has no more idea who would be buying her such a lavish bouquet as the rest of the team. Not noticing Frankie's puzzled expression, Mel jumps up and joins Grace in searching the flowers for a card. “I’m jealous Frankie, where did you find him?”

“Frankie find who?” Before Frankie can fathom Mel’s train of thought, Boyd's voice cuts through the room, and he impatiently rustles a folder of papers for emphasis. She scowls at his self-involvement before joining the other women, who are pointedly ignoring him and toying with the flowers. 

“The man - you know - whoever sent these” Mel snorts, emerging triumphantly with a card and handing it over. “Go on, read it!”

Grace and Mel give her some distance while she rips the little envelope open and pulls out the card, allowing her to study it in piece. Plain cream linen, the card doesn't even bare a florists' name, just one small, but extravagantly calligraphic word: Sorry.

“So what does it say? Who’s it from? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had a new man!” Mel’s words bubble over her as she stares at the card. The word - the apology - can only have come from one man, but he doesn’t do hearts and flowers. She fights the urge to look at him, but she knows she is right from by the way he continues to rustle his papers.

“It’s an apology.” Frankie smiles at Mel. Pausing for a beat, she looks at each member of the team in turn, just so she can study Boyd’s forcefully blank face. His eyes give him away - twinkling with amusement - and suddenly she understands; this is a self deprecating gesture, mocking his own dramatics in turning up on her doorstep. But it isn’t public, not for the rest of the team to know.

“From my mum.” She smiles finally taking the bouquet from Spence’s arms and turning to Grace, cutting off any questions with one of her own. “Do you have a vase?”


	12. Good Mood

A happy workplace is a successful workplace. Boyd had realised this long ago, and though his tendency to lose his temper sometimes hinders him, he strives to keep his team in what is a basically a productive good mood.

So, it had been necessary to make it up to Frankie and if that took a ridiculously over the top gesture, then he was willing to suffer the condescending florist and her pathetic notions of romance. 

He’d chosen the bouquet himself, it was already made up, and he’d mentally laughed when the florist told him that it had been designed for a wedding reception. She’d been reluctant to sell it and she’d jacked the price through the roof, but surveying all the other arrangements in the shop, he didn’t dare let the woman prepare something that would reach Frankie without his approval. 

When he requested that it be sent to a police station the woman’s eyebrows had raised, as if she couldn’t believe that police officers would want flowers. He’d let the reaction pass and pressed his pre-written card into her hand. It had taken five attempts with a home calligraphy kit that a misguided family member had gifted years ago to get the card right. He’d struggled to make sure that the writing was disguised enough in case one of the others saw it, but he wanted personal and wasn’t about to trust the florist who probably would have improvised a hallmark-esque poem to accompany his simple message. 

He considered his gesture a stroke of genius, something of a gamble but one that paid off. The flowers held pride of place in Frankie’s office, despite the contamination risk he was sure they posed. And every time he saw them through the window, saw her tweaking them fondly, a smile curved his lips. 

It wasn't until late into the night, over two days since they appeared on her desk, that she had the chance to thank him. She knew to wait until they were alone, and the team had been working long days most of the week: this was the first time he’d managed to persuade Mel and Spence to leave before 9 o’clock.

The knock on his door was tentative, which roused his suspicion. Frankie was more disposed to barging in: or at least forcefully demanding entrance by banging the door down. He looked up to see her already slipping through the door, quietly closing it behind her. Grace was still in her office, head buried in a file, and he assumed Frankie didn’t want to raise awkward questions.

“Frankie.” He smiled, looking at her over his glasses. “What can I do for you?” She cocked her head to one side as he rose to his feet, intending to fetch a file from his cabinet. He was a little surprised as she carefully caught his arm and stopped him, and even more surprised when she leant towards him and lightly brushed her lips against his cheek. It was a slow, gentle action as if in deliberate contrast to the last two kisses they had shared.

“I just wanted to say thank you…” she smiled at him, and he realised his cheeks were warm “for the flowers. They are beautiful, and the gesture is…well, appreciated” She laughed, and he felt a further flush of relief that she understood.

“You’re welcome; I couldn’t stand the thought of there being bad blood between us.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anymore. They stood for a moment, pressed together, until he realised he was staring. The warmth of her body withdrew but she held his gaze a second more, before stepping away from him, towards the door. As she began to the open it, he spoke again, “Frankie maybe, when this investigation is finished, we should all try going for another drink? To celebrate?”

She smiled, but her voice was despondent when she replied. “Yeah, maybe.”


	13. Excessive Chain

It’s a bit annoying, the way the world works sometimes. How fickle fate can be. Just when you are sure one thing is about to happen, you’re as certain about it as black is white, and then life takes a totally different turn.

Take this situation between Boyd and Frankie, for example. They are attracted to each other, any fool can see that. And in so many ways they are perfectly compatible. She, as a (generally) levelheaded and sensible pragmatist, is the perfect foil to his (frequently) hot-headed and impulsive theorist. They have known each other (and been friends) for years, he cares a great deal about her as more than just passion - he constantly considers her welfare, as he does his whole team.

There is the work thing. Relationships in the workplace are often complicated and doomed to failure. And they do make life post-relationship awkward. But there is nothing more irritating than ‘What if?’ and if they never try then they will spend the rest of their lives with it hanging over their heads. Tormented by it.

Deep down, they both want it to happen, so much that it muddles their judgement and creates barriers where none are needed. They aren’t just worried anymore, they are scared. Not about the ramifications of it going wrong, but of it going _right _Their feelings are already so deep, so strong, that taking the next step is terrifying because of the intensity it would bring. They would never be able to go back to just friendship, the emotions have gone too far already.

So instead they teeter on the edge of this something, this relationship, dancing around its edges like skittish children. Allowing the same chain of events to repeat itself indefinitely, the slips of control: the gazes; the touches; the kisses.

But eventually it will all implode. It has too. And while the world around them waits with baited breath for this moment, when the inevitable occurs, they carry on oblivious, pretending they are safe.


	14. Radio Cassette Player

The department is almost entirely dark. A soft desk lamp in the main room illuminates Boyd as he studies the case board, and in the lab Frankie scribbles notes by the glow of another lone light. They are aware of each other in concept: Frankie knows she isn’t alone but doesn’t know who else is there, while Boyd assumed it was Frankie when he entered and saw a light but has now almost forgotten.

The darkness and the silence are oppressive, and Frankie slips from her seat to switch on an old cassette radio she salvaged from her mum's. It’s old and it’s tinny, but it echoes surprisingly loud in the empty department.

Eventually Boyd comes back to himself, and he checks the time. Over an hour has passed since he sat down and he rises from his perch on the edge of Spence's desk and stretches languidly. The sound of music and the soft blue glow draw him to the lab, and he stands a moment behind the glass door, watching her hands skip over paper and files; completely absorbed in her work.

There’s a click and a whirr as the tape turns over. It's a compilation of folk, heavy on lone guitars and haunting vocals. It floods the darkened department with its heady tones and plucks at the room's loneliness. It draws a need for contact and he enters the room.

With every sense heightened by the thrall of the music she senses his approach rather than hears it; feels him watching her and looks up to meet his gaze, singing all the while. She'd forgotten this song was even on the tape, and a smile tugs her lips as she realises its relevance. She can see Boyd's embarrassment – his shame – as she sings softly, watching him without faltering.

“_We might kiss, when we’re alone  
__When nobody’s watching  
__We might take it home  
__It's not that we're scared_  
It's just that it's delicate”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so glad (a bit surprised too!) by how many people are still around reading this. I hope everyone's still enjoying it and doesn't end up disappointed after such a long wait!

When I'm here with you

I say the world could be burning, burning down

Till its nothing but dark blue

**//Dark Blue//Jacks Mannequin//**

The warehouse is completely gutted. Only half the walls still stand and those that do are stained in charcoal; the shadows of the flames still flickering away, years after the fire died.

'I don't know what you expect me to find.' Frankie pushes past you to fit through one of the few remaining door frames. You don't really expect anything; it's so long after the fire and the teams at the time couldn't find anything. But arson doesn't fit like murders, evidence is harder to relocate and store so this is your only chance of piecing together the puzzle.

'With your outstanding talents Frankie, I expect an entire catalogue.' You grin at her and she casts you a withering glance before lowering herself to a particularly large pile of rubble.

'So this is – was – the room they found him in?' She asks as she begins raking through it. You scan the notes until you find the picture of the original crime scene.

'Yes. The far left corner, he was slumped against the bricks, and she was about…5 feet in front of him.'

'God, this is going to take forever.'

'Lucky for us then Frankie, that you have nothing else to work on.' She mutters angrily in reply as you smile and you can see the desire to hurl some of the larger rubble at you forming in her mind.

'I don't see why you can't spare Mel and Spence to help me gather this. And if you think you’re just going to stand there and watch…' She trails off but her intention is clear. You admit defeat and join her in rooting through the piles – looking for marks on the concrete floor or blood-spattered bricks – and you both work in silence.

* * *

You don't how long you are at work, but when your back aches unbearably and your knees are sore from pressing against the hard floor, you look up to see the sky beginning to darken.

'Frankie, we’re going to have to…' Your suggestion she should start to pack away is cut off by her cry of triumph.

'Look at this, Boyd!' She waves you over excitedly, and with much creaking and groaning you get up and walk over to her.

'I'm getting too old for crawling on hands and knees' You bend over her shoulder and scrutinise the small square of concrete she has cleared.

'Look, that’s the blood from her I'm guessing – I've got a sample to be sure – but look at that dent in the concrete. I'm not sure – in a warehouse like this it could just be from machinery – but it looks too sharp, too small and too deep; something with an incredibly small surface area.'

'Like a pick axe?'

'Like a pick axe. It's going to get to get too dark too soon to do much more now, but I am going to make a cast of this hole before we go. Kit's in the car.'

An arc of her eyebrow tells you this is an instruction [hahahaha] and with a heavy sigh, you follow it.

The tool box Frankie uses for instruments is hidden in the boot, but you find it quickly. As you turn to head back into the warehouse you are struck by the almost beautiful desolation that greets you. The sun is setting behind the shell of the building, a dusky blue rises above its jagged lines, whilst golden steaks filter through every crack, every hole.

As you stand and admire it, just for a moment, a small voice approaches. 'And can you get…' Frankie finds you standing by the car, and with a tone of bemusement she asks 'What are you doing?'

She pauses in the gaping hole where the entrance once was; directly in front of a hole in the roof that lets great shafts of the burning sunset through and for a moment you can see the fire as it swept through the building – hungrily devouring the clothes and boxes and bodies. And silhouetted against the flaming wreck stands Frankie, hands on hips, defiant before the flames as they reach out to her; kissing and stroking her outline. [I love this sentence!]

'Boyd?'

And the sun sinks just a bit further, lost behind even the crags of the building and you shake yourself out of it. 'Sorry, what else did you want?'

'My torch.' She shakes her head and moves towards your, past you, to the car. 'Strange man.'


	16. Invincible; Unrivalled

  
  


'You think you're untouchable, Boyd. You think you won’t lose – you _can’t_ lose. You won't admit what happened because it would be admitting that you aren't perfect, that YOU screwed up. You blame us for ruining the case because you can't face that fact that YOU BLEW IT.'

The slamming of the office door was the exclamation mark of Mel's tirade and she stormed out [?] through the department. Frankie and Grace - who had heard the whole thing – looked at each other, then at Spence who had only caught the tail end. 'Someone should speak to Mel…' Frankie ventured. Grace nodded and headed for the door behind Mel while Spence cast a wary glance to Boyd's door. 'Well, I'm not entering the lion’s den.'

Frankie sighed heavily, 'Fine, I will. But you' she pointed at the coward 'can go help Grace. You need the practice.'

Spence shrugged. 'Anything is better than that.'

As he left the room Frankie mumbled under her breath 'You reckon.'

* * *

'Boyd, can I come in?' She peaked around the door, watching as he paced angrily. His face was almost crimson and when he shot round to look at her she could tell his first reaction was to tell her to get lost. But instead he took a deep breath and flopped into his chair. 'I suppose you’re the chosen sacrifice?'

'Yeah, Grace thinks she's beyond being thrown to the wolves, and Spencer is too much of a coward.' She approached the desk, perched on the side and looked down at him. 'Are you okay?'

He scoffed 'Apart from the fact I feel I ought to fire Mel for that outburst? I'm great.'

She placed a hand on his knee 'You know she was just…'

'Pent up about the case? I don't care, Frankie. I am her superior and if she doesn't trust my judgement - or at least respect my decisions whether she trusts them or not - then we have a problem. One that's not going to disappear when I've calmed down.'

'She's let herself become too close to Miss Hargreaves. She knows that. She's emotionally invested in finding out what happened to that little girl, and every time we fail it's like a slap in the face.'

'Another reason she should be moved on.'

'You don't mean that.'

'I don't want to mean it, but it's true. And you know it too. Just because we are cold case – removed from the station, stuck down here – doesn't mean we can get so close knit that we can't be objective.'

She slapped his knee, remonstratively. 'Stop it.'

He stared up at her, and she could she the anger reigniting. It was intimidating but she wasn't backing down. 'You can't seriously expect me to believe you would have Mel transferred.'

And he was on his feet again, rapidly pacing in front of the desk. She stayed quiet as she watched him – silence filled the room until he shattered it the loud crack of his hands slamming down on the desk. The gesture made her jump from the desk, and she turned to face him with the desk as a barrier between them.

'So apparently you are second guessing me now too? I've been doing this long enough Frankie, long enough to know the right way and the wrong way to run a department. You think I’m not emotionally involved in this case? Do you think the disappearance of seven year old girl doesn't play on my parental guilt? Do you think watching her poor mother going through all this' he raised his hands and slammed them against the desktop a second time 'AGAIN, doesn't hit home for me?'

She felt a flush of shame blossom on her cheeks. She had connected Boyd's personal history with the case before – they all had – but with his reluctance to mention it, it had faded from her mind. Flooded with guilt she leaned in close and reaching for his hand, she apologised. The fires in his eyes had dampened again and in their place, she could see old ghosts dancing.

But his shell had been years in the making - realising his display of weakness he ducked his head. 'I can't let every missing child, every murdered child, every grieving parent affect me because I couldn't cope with the pain. And I can't sit back and watch my team put themselves through it either.' He gave a distinct sniff and looked up to meet her eyes again. 'I can't and I won't.'

'Boyd.' She whispered, arching over her his head and brushing her lips against his hair.

A loud knock made her jump, and he gave her a small smile before pulling away to face the door. As the door opened, Mel's raised voice floated through. Spence stuck his head in, a shell-shocked look on his face 'Grace would like to see you, Sir…'

Frankie followed Boyd out, whispering to Spence as she passed.

'I definitely picked the right one.'


	17. Kilohertz

A huge bang tore through the department – a door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows in their frames – announcing the return of Mel, Spence and the slammer of the door – Boyd.

The noise drew Frankie and Grace from their seats in the latter's office, and they both choked back laughter at the sight of their returning team members. Or. more specifically, their boss who had acquired a halo, as every single hair on his head stood to attention, forming a soft grey fuzz around his head.

'Wh…what ha…ha…happened?' Grace finally managed to get out, whilst Frankie rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

Mel and Spence – crippled by their own amusement – stumbled to explain but can't get the breath between laughing to form more than 'He' 'grabbed' and 'then...'

'I was booby trapped. That BASTARD had rigged an electric fence around his house.'

'B…Boyd just gr…grabb..bbed it and it thr…threw him off.' Mel dissolved once more into giggles, as Grace finally composed herself again. 'Are you alright though?'

'Yes I am, thank you for asking as apparently no one else cares. I could have been KILLED!'

Any time one of the others managed to calm down, the laughter of their colleagues set them off. Frankie was the next to compose herself, and with her mind still vaguely on the job her first question was 'Did you manage to get the bag though?'

'Luckily for you…' Boyd reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic evidence bag 'Yes. And I want a result on this Frankie.' He placed the bag onto Mel's desk and retreated into his office, as Spence set the team off again: 'because now it's _personal_'.

\+ + +

A few hours later Frankie returned, a sheet of paper clasped in her hand and a triumphant grin on her face. 'Boyd!' She didn't bother to knock before she threw the door open. 'I have a match. In fact, I have two matches. Hair caught in the Velcro – some hers, some his.'

Boyd rose to his feet and practically ripped the paper from her hands. He scanned it eagerly, his eyes glittering with vengeful joy and a smile slowly curving his lips. In the blink of an eye, his hands were on her cheeks, and his face was only inches from hers – too quick even for shock to register, his lips had brushed hers. It was a second of contact, and only the glint in his eyes told her that it actually happened. He released her just as quickly, and her astonishment unsteadied her so much that she fell against the door behind her.

And as if she had only just entered the room he gave her a wicked smile.

'Sometimes Frankie, I could kiss you!'


	18. Chapter 18

Boyd's triumphant smirk intrigues her, so when he calls the whole team to the main office she immediately follows; dropping the box of gloves she had previously been ripping apart. 

She takes a seat behind Mel's desk as Boyd goes to fetch Grace and Mel. Spence notes her arrival with a quirk of his lips but gives Boyd a skeptical look and continues to shuffle and tidy the papers on his desk. While Boyd disappears into Grace's office, Spence casts Frankie an irritated look. 'Do you know what this is about? I was hoping to be finished on time today; this place is driving me crazy after these last few weeks.'

'No idea: it was my curiosity that drew me out here.' She smiles as the other three emerge, with Mel muttering the same complaints as Spence. 

'This had better be worth it Boyd.'

'Oh, it is, Mel - in fact, it's brilliant. I've just heard from court…'

'Is this about Heatherton?' Grace winces as Spence mentions the name, and Boyd reaches a reassuring hand to her shoulder.

'Yes, it is Spence. He was found guilty of the abduction, rape and murder of Keeley Hopton and the abduction of Dr Grace Foley. He got the maximum sentence'

'Thank God!' Grace half-sighs, half-laughs as Boyd squeezes her shoulder. 

'I told you it was good news!' He smiles down at her before stepping away to let Mel and Spence both share their congratulations. 'And congratulations Frankie, because we all know we wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that DNA match from her coat.' 

With a wide smile Grace reaches to clasp Frankie's hands in hers: 'He's right Frankie, thank you.'

Blushing awkwardly, Frankie smiles, 'Only doing my job, Grace.'

'But so well.' Releasing her hands, Grace pulls away 'And you will allow me to buy you a drink as a thank you?'

'Go on then, you twisted my arm.'

'And everyone else? Can we say the Crown, this evening?'

***

'Frankie…'

She's so lost in thought that she almost hits the ceiling as Boyd's voice cuts through the silence of the lab, dropping her keys with the shock. 'Thanks Boyd!' She mumbles, crouching to retrieve them 'I thought you'd gone with the others.' 

Smugly looking down at her, he replies 'the responsibilities of the boss. I had a few things of my own to clear up and thought I would check on you before I left, see if you were ready. And you are.'

'Was.' Spotting the keys at Boyd's feet, she reaches out toward him, but he ducks down at the last minute to pick them up. 

'Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you.'

With a huff of disbelief, she rises to her feet, rocking back on her heels and almost overbalancing. Steadying her, Boyd grabs her arm, and she glares up at him, 'Sure you didn't.'

Feigning hurt he drops her arm and she deliberately turns her back on him as she shrugs her coat on and heads for the door: 'Giving me a heart attack was just an accident.'

He throws her a hurt look, and in reply she flicks the lights off on him. 'Hey,' he whines, quickly darting out the door, 'as if I would do that. You can't find us valuable evidence if you're dead can you?'

His tone is joking – his joy at the outcome of this case was abundant – but she is tender from the stress of the last few weeks and Boyd's comment cuts sharply through her already fragile skin. Her voice is snappy as she demands to know 'is that the only reason you want me here?'

'Because you're outstanding at your job, is that an insult?'

Turning her back on him to lock the door, she refrains from answering him.

'It's not meant to be you know…'

Leaning towards her, he lays his hand on her arm which only flusters her further and she fumbles code for the door. A loud beep slices through the silent department. 'Shit,' she turns to Boyd, intending to shout him down but finds herself far closer to him than she expected. Her anger is lost, her body fighting against her mind, and all she can think about is the burn of his fingers on her arm, his breath running through her hair and the way he's almost pinning her against the door.

She's not sure who makes the first move, but suddenly she's against the door with his lips pressing hers hard enough to bruise. Her hands slide up to his hair, tangling it between her fingers as his hands run down her side, seek the skin beneath her shirt and splay against the curve of her stomach. 

There are no fireworks, no blinding moment, just him and her and every nerve in her body on fire.

But, as if on agreement they both pull back. Breathless and unsteady she stares up at him, trying to rationalise, trying just to comprehend the look in his eyes.

'Boyd is that you, sorry I just forgot…'

Mel's voice slices them apart. Immediately Frankie goes to smooth her shirt and Boyd's hand rises to his hair, brushing it flat. They couldn't look guiltier, they are both aware of it and Mel's knowing smirk just proves it.


	19. Red

She pauses in the doorway – sitting is committing and all she wants to do is run as far and as fast as possible – but the woman in pale blue smiles up at her and gestures to the chair and Frankie realises her only option is to grin and bear this ridiculous exercise.

'Dr Wharton'

'Dr Griffin' Slowly Frankie drops into the chair, not bothering to even feign interest in her surroundings. Fixing her gaze determinedly on the - still smiling – Dr Griffin, she chooses the only escape open to her – a mental one – and begins internally cataloguing the evidence of their latest case.

'I'm sure you know why you're here'

_One: Partial print on the doorknob._

'But in case you aren't, I have explained to your colleagues and it's only fair I do the same to you,' she punctuates this sentence with a flutter of her hands and a silvery laugh.

_Two: The serrated edge of the wound._

'Earlier this year a break down in communications between your team lead to your friend Dr Foley being at risk from a suspected murderer…'

This blatant misrepresentation of the truth finally pulls Frankie back to the room: 'I think you will find it was a break down in communications between us as a _department_ and the _rest of the station_ that resulted in Dr Foley's being sent alone to Darkly's farm.'

'So your colleagues already informed me. However, I'm familiar with the events as the District Commissioner sees them. And that is the version which has led you here, so let's stick to it shall we?' Her voice is sickly sweet, but Frankie knows her question is completely rhetorical. Sure enough, after a few seconds pause and smile, she starts up again, 'So here we are. As you know, the point of our sessions is to discuss your relationships within the department so we can identify why your communications failed, and prevent it happening again.'

_Three: A knife, clearly not the murder weapon, was also found at the scene covered in the victim's blood._

'Which of your colleagues do you feel you get on best with?'

_Four: The fibre found_…'Probably Mel.' _on her arm_

'You barely thought about that. Would you say you had a particularly close relationship with Miss Silver.'

'No closer than the others. But Spence and Boyd can be hard to talk to sometimes due to their tempers and they are both quite demanding at times.'

'What about Dr Foley?'

Sighing, Frankie accepts that trying to zone out is not going to work and fights not to glare at the other Doctor in irritation as she answers.

'Grace is…well I suppose we have less in common than Mel and I. Grace is older, she's seen more. She is also a psychologist; she's only interested in evidence if it helps her form profiles. Mel and I share a similar need for answers through physical evidence, so Mel understands my work better.'

'I see. Now, in order to properly asses how you feel about each of the other team members, I have devised a collection of questions I wish you to answer. Try and say what immediately comes into your head, don't think to hard about it.'

Frankie gives a curt nod in reply, as a sinking feeling overtook. This was going to be one long hour.

***

She had not been wrong. Dr Griffin reeled off a list of questions, each more tedious and ridiculous than the last and Frankie could feel her energy seeping from her body, drenching the ground. Everything from first impressions to fake situations and her predictions on how everyone would react was put to her. Her eyes were glued to the clock, counting down every second until this torturous hour would be up. With the end nigh - only fifteen minutes left – she tried to give her full attention but found Griffin had been saving the best till last.

'And finally, an exercise I have found is very telling in these situations: an exercise in association. I am going to list each member of your team and I want you to tell which colour you most associate with them. Again, try and give your gut reaction and not think to hard about this.'

It was all she could do not to gag. Having worked with Grace she realised what a key skill psychological study was and how revealing and incisive it could be. But this, this was the kind of new-age, hippy therapy that gave a hugely important field a bad name.

And she'd had her fill of it years ago, when she was unlucky enough to fall into bed with someone who was into to colour psychology and had somehow decided it would make fascinating pillow talk. The scientist in her had found it ridiculous but also, she was ashamed to admit, interesting and she'd applied the basics of it to her home in a huge redecoration project when Boyd had forced her to take a break for a week.

'Okay.'

'Good, right, well I think we should start with the person you feel closest to…Mel.'

Frankie doesn't bother to correct her about the earlier statements, instead trying to focus on the task in hand. 'Mel…purple.'

'And why do you think you associate her with that colour?'

'Because…it's the colour of her favourite jumper.'

'O-kay. That is not exactly the kind of answer I was looking for. The colour purple is generally associated with sensuality and creativity, mystery, wisdom and nobility. Do you feel any of these seem suited to Mel?'

'What about wealth, ceremony? To be honest, yeah the creativity and mystery because she often comes up with more fanciful ideas than Boyd and she is very quiet and secretive about her past but not so much with the others. I'd say it was more negative stuff, such as exaggeration and confusion that would draw me to that colour.'

With a sweetly innocent smile, she reclines into her chair. For a moment Griffin looks angry, but rapidly pulls herself together. 'So you know something about colour psychology.'

'A little'

'Then maybe you could make more of an effort on the next one? Dr Foley.'

'Blue.'

'And why do you think that is?'

'Let's see if I can remember this…blue is the colour of confidence and dependability but also unity and calm. Grace is the glue of the department who fights to keep us together, smoothes over the cracks if Boyd gets angry or Spence. But she also care's a lot, plays the mother, tries to keep us all in line and I don't think there's a colour for all that.'

'But maybe loyalty fits into that as well. That's brilliant, much more what I'm after. What about Mr Jordan?'

'Spence is easily Orange.'

'Can you explain…'

'Energy, heat and enthusiasm. He's like Boyd but watered down. Energy, I guess, because he's always striving for that answer. When the rest of us are curled in a corner somewhere, slowly picking apart our work whilst barely awake, he will still be fighting on, pouring over files: statements, photos, everything looking for the one thing we've all missed. Heat because, well he's got a temper too and it usually fuels Boyd. And enthusiasm, because, well same as energy I suppose.'

'And finally Mr Boyd?'

'Red.'

The doctor seems slightly surprised at the quickness and fervour in her voice, but when she gestures for Frankie to explain further, she remains quiet. 'Dr Wharton…'

'Oh right, well, I mean it's obvious isn't it? You've met Boyd. Anger and fire and leadership and passion and…'

She trails off as memories of their encounter only a week ago spring to her mind. They'd passed it off as ridiculous pent up feelings after the case, had barely mentioned it since and despite much prodding from Mel, she'd fought to forget it ever happened.

But the colour red has more connotations, she knows that. Passion of a double meaning, masculinity and power, lust and sex. The memory floods back: the look on his face, commanding, exciting. And the fire in his eyes; the rush she had felt as his hands had run over her body, under her clothes; the groan she had felt against her lips when she slid her own hands beneath his shirt…

'Dr Wharton?'

And she's back in this depressing little room. She doesn't want to think about Boyd, about that evening, but its better at least than being here. In desperation, her eyes fly to the clock again, and with relief, she sees its five past.

'Oh god, look – we've overran. I'll be keeping you from her next appointment!' As she speaks she collects her coat and bag, is already at the door before she hears Dr Griffin insist 'No, my next isn't till half-past and I really think we should discuss...'

'No, it's fine. I can't afford another half hour anyway,' and she closes the door on the session and her thoughts.


	20. The Road Home

For her first month in Cold Case, Frankie could never wait to get home - if only to get away from THEM: the obnoxious male DC constantly shouting her down; the ridiculously subjective Superintendent with no understanding of delicate nature of her work. The young DC so desperate to get it right – to make her impression – that she pushed and pushed for answers Frankie just couldn't give. Never before had she been forced to work with such an abrasive, ignorant set of people before and never before had she been so close to quitting.

But when the first case was closed and their second underway, she began to see the light at the end of this very long tunnel. After the initial adjustment period, the six vastly different people finally smoothed each others rougher edges and began to fit together. They changed, she changed, and they were no longer trying to constantly outdo each other; be the one to make the difference, make the breakthrough.

And as the years passed, she found their respective pieces fitting better and better as bonds of friendship wound round them, though the sharper edges still caught occasionally. Mel still fought hard to be a key part of the team and not let the inferiority of her rank affect her role and contribution. Spence still threw his weight around every so often, unable to keep his emotions constantly in check. And Boyd - well Boyd still exploded from time to time, still expected her to be quicker, more reliable, to give more than she could ever manage. Still, even he mellowed.

But her work was her passion once again. She enjoyed the command of her lab, and the companionship of her colleagues. And, more and more, she found herself staying late: running extra tests hours after her official end of day; tidying up edges of evidence she compiled; pushing the boundaries of what she could offer the team come morning briefing.

And she tells herself that it's because she wants to help, to give them the best she can, but in her heart, she knows it's because this is where she's happiest.


End file.
